My mother has but two sons, words that make me squirm in my skin- was I wrong to have come into her world, when clearly she never had space for my name?
Sometimes I wonder, would her life be a little less harsh for her if I were never there? But there is a turmoil, you see, in my head. I lie to myself every morning as I find myself waking up earlier every passing day, huffing and puffing, wishing for more sleep- of course not! (I scold myself) What a selfish perspective!- but in my heart I fear the truth damns me into a spiral of crushed, sandpaper words that scrape my teeth as they make their way up my stomach through my throat, like bile on my tongue, a jittering reality of cascading weights that keep falling and falling and falling once more, pulling me under
Yes, yes she would.
I mourn my parents who still live, their bodies here but their souls so very cold, so very vacant; I reminisce of a life- be it so far away- where I was a daughter, the daughter of a musician, the daughter of a teacher, a daughter who loved music and dollhouses and stuffed toys that would surround her as she felt afraid to sleep alone. A daughter who knew her father would protect her from the monsters that leered at her from under her bed.
But what is a daughter to do when the monster under her bed turns out to be the one who promised her he would protect? When the mother turns sour and mean from being unable to escape said monster, what does she see when she looks at me? From under the covers, the monster's daughter peeks back at her. How could she ever love such a monster so much like me?
If I were a son, would you love me differently? Would you love me at all? Or would I be too much like my father? With my voice and my eyes and my arms and my thighs and the little moles across my arms and back, would I be too much like the monster you loved so very much?
I live through the stories of families I never had, of a family I wish we could be. I feel no animosity to those who do; I feel no anger or resentment towards the god that I was taught had power over all things. It is cathartic that I am stricken with grief only when I see a mother who you are to them differs from the one you are to me.
Yet I wonder: if you ever saw me as your daughter, would you read books with me in the rain, would you sit with me, laugh with me as you do so with your sons? Would we share a cup of tea in the afternoon? Would you never say the words that you have said to me?
My mother has but two sons, her pillars, her armour; her serendipity lies within their calloused hands.
My mother has two sons, her eden, her salvation; they do no wrong by her name.
My mother had two sons; how I wish for a world to be her third, is that a request far too insane?
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